He drove for about a half an hour into the heart of the woods, until he came to a shack in the middle of it. Phineas stepped in, wincing at the creak of the old door, and was taken aback by the shack's contents. Or rather, by the quality of the shack's contents. Superficially, it seemed exactly like a shack in the woods, perhaps the type recently inhabited by the Unabomber. Scraps of paper lined with mad scribblings were littered across the floor, along with a few broken pieces of furniture, some discarded food, and a large piece of driftwood. However, for some reason, all of it seemed absolutely beautiful, like pristine artwork. The scribblings could have been the transcribed subconscious of Mozart, and the half-eaten hotdog under Phineas's heel was a thing of religious significance. Most beautiful however, was the driftwood.
            It was the gateway. Not just in a metaphorical sense, but in a transcendent sense as well. It felt as if it was the gateway. Perhaps the gates of heaven, or the door behind which sat absolute truth. Phineas moved it over, and found that it was actually just covering up the mouth of a cave. He was understandably disappointed.
            Grabbing a flashlight, Phineas slid into the cave, but he found that it wasn't necessary. The walls radiated with brilliant light, and seemed to be made of marble, or platinum. The stalactites were like giant, glistening fountains. One had to admit, they were very nice stalactites.
            "Hello?" Phineas called out into the cave. From around the bend, a man appeared. Or maybe an angel. Phineas couldn't tell, and he didn't even believe in angels, which certainly made this a point in their favor. It was, to put it quite simply, beautiful. Not just in terms of looks, but also in terms of the way it carried itself, the way the air around it tasted. It also had a look of anguish across its face. "M-Michael?" Phineas asked, cowed.
            Michael replied, and his voice and his words were splendid. They wanted Phineas gone, they wanted to be alone. They didn't want to be seen by anyone, they didn't want their radiance anymore. The words he spoke hurt Michael to listen to, not because of the message they gave, but because his ears simply ached to hear anything so near perfection. Michael was about to say something, to offer his humble apology to the creature, before it began to grow more enchanting again.
            Molten gold dribbled from Michael's pores, slowly slipping down his fingertips before splashing to the floor, sizzling hotly. Perhaps it was this that tormented him, or something else- some change in his spirit that was too much even for him to bear himself. Whatever it was, it drove him mad. He ran about in circles, screaming a tormented melody. As he ran, the gold continued to drip from him and slip off of the bottom of his feet. He would splash through the puddles, and smear them, spreading the gold all around in great lines and shapes.
            Phineas had to shield his eyes, and close his ears, as it had all become too much, but STILL he could feel Michael's presence in the room, his complete perfection. He couldn't see, yet he could sense it when Michael's radiance overtook him, causing him to burst into a plume of flames of colours nothing can repeat. Phineas shook there, huddled up, waiting for the perfection to stop until finally Michael had burned himself away completely.
            When he opened his eyes, his head felt very near to bursting. He slowly stepped out of the cave, when his eyes fell to the floor. There, smeared in gold and speckled with Michael's remains, Phineas saw something hideously wonderful. A picture, painted by Michael's madness. He saw that which Michael had always wanted, a creation that triumphed his own beauty.
            Phineas left that place, and never wrote his book. He never saw Michael's mother again to explain what happened to her. He'd let her piece things together, when she went to see her son and found his cave filled with cement. She couldn't be allowed to see what was down there, after all. She was too susceptible to beauty.